Montag's Memories
by ElisabethMG
Summary: A collection of endpapers that served as Montag's diary after the end of the book. I wrote this for a report and liked it, so here it is! This was originally going to be posted as a bunch of short chapters, but I decided to go with oneshot.


First Day, an Age of Rebirth

"_To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven: A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted; A time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up; A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance; A time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together; a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing; A time to get, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to cast away; A time to rend, and a time to sew; a time to keep silence, and a time to speak; A time to love, and a time to hate; a time of war, and a time of peace." (Ecclesiastes 3:1-8)_

Everything is gone. All that is left is a flat expanse of dust, debris, and the untouchable ghost of what was once there.

What still should be there: skyscrapers blocking out the sky, cookie-cutter houses, fire stations, hotels…

I daren't go near the hotels.

I find myself walking aimlessly, with no particular destination. Grander is always one step ahead of me, searching. We look for survivors, we bury the dead. We find books, we take them with us.

But most of all, we remember.

Granger says that, to remember, we must not forget. I do not want to forget. I will tear out more endpapers, like this, and record what I need to remember.

I will throw this page into the wind when I am done writing. My memories will not be destroyed as easily as books once were. One hundred pages, all fluttering around in the rubble, are harder to burn than one solid bound book.

It seems like a totally alien world, in this endless gray gloom.

There is no Mildred, no Faber, no Beatty, no Mechanical Hound, no Clarisse, no parlor walls, no fire station, no helicopters, no Denham's Dentifrice, no great black snakes…

I hate it.

Seventh Day, Rebirth of the Phoenix

"_Wherefore I praised the dead which are already dead more than the living which are yet alive." (Ecclesiastes 4:2)_

Granger tries to write. He is—we are all trying to come up with a name for our new age. An age of remembrance, an age of rebirth from something horrible, where Life is praised less than television.

As we scavenge for food and knowledge, I don't want to remember. At first I felt like a child, saying, "Look! That's my old home!" or "That's where I jumped into the river!" but now my head feels like a huge blob of confusion and fear and despair.

I'm not entirely certain why I'm so afraid. I don't think I'm afraid of change, or even the overwhelming sense of emptiness.

Maybe it's the horrible ghost that haunts the city, reminding us of what used to be there, and preying on those who are insecure. Two of our number have gone missing.

The dead are abundant, their bodies horribly mutilated in the explosion.

Survivors, on the other hand, are impossible to find. A man, his lungs slowly rising and falling with his last breaths, does not count as a survivor.

Although I found, on one of my long walks, an old woman, sobbing. I joined her on the block of cement on which she sat. She looked up at me, tears streaming from her eyes, and I almost screamed. Amidst brittle white hair and millions of wrinkles sat a pair of young eyes. They shone as innocent as a child, as bright as a star, and as sad as a willow—a bright blue, the color of the sky before it became full of dust. And, not blinking, she whispered:

"Please. Please, don't tell."

I didn't.

Eleventh Day, RFA

"_Or ever the silver cord be loosed, or the golden bowl be broken, or the pitcher be broken at the fountain, or the wheel be broken at the cistern. Then shall the dust return to the earth as it was: and the spirit shall return unto God who gave it." (Ecclesiastes 12:6)_

RFA stands from Rebirth from the Ashes—Granger based it off the legend of the phoenix and the flame. I only write 'Eleventh Day' because that's how long Granger says it's been since the bomb struck. I've lost track of time, as the sun is obscured. The days and nights run together into an eternal gloomy twilight.

We have been surviving off of food scavenged from the land and the occasional supermarket, as well as water from the river.

Life is boring. We are all restless, searching. Searching for meaning, searching for people, searching for hope.

I know—all of us know—that it is lost. We are alone.

But Granger refuses to admit defeat. He says there is more for us to do here, in the city. I think he is trying to live up to his grandfather's philosophy—he wants to leave as much of his spirit behind as he can.

But there are no survivors. That much the rest of us know.

Thirteenth Day, RFA

"_I returned, and saw under the sun that the is not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong, neither the yet bread to the wise, nor yet riches to the men of understanding, nor yet favour to men of skill; but time and chance happeneth to them all." (Ecclesiastes 9:11)_

Her name is Ellie.

That gave me a jolt, the first time I heard it. Ellie, so similar to Millie.

Mildred…

But with Ellie, we cannot dwell on the past. For a moment, we must forget remembering. Because Ellie is our future.

I was the one who first saw her, a small figure on the distant horizon. At first glance, she was just a pillar—the bones of what must have been a magnificent building at one time. But I saw her, as Granger and several of the rest of us were searching for food. I moved towards her, abruptly changing my direction. Someone—I don't know who—called out, "Montag! Montag, come back!"

I did not look back.

I found her easily. She hadn't bothered to hide, despite the fact that it was obvious that I was coming. She was perched on top of a smokestack that was still standing, diagonally. I clambered up to join her, slipping and sliding up the smooth metal.

"Hello," I had said. It sounded fine in my head, but stupid when I said it aloud, reverberating in the vast emptiness.

"My grandmother…" she had murmured, so quiet the wind almost snatched it from my ears. "She's asleep, and I can't wake her up."

And she looked up at me with huge, innocent eyes, full of fear and hope.

Eyes the color of the sky.

_This is a collection of papers _

_gathered by Ellie,_

_the first child of the Rebirth. _

_They were found_

_approximately a year_

_after the Bombing,_

_scattered all over_

_the ruins of the old city._


End file.
